


Five Times Dean Winchester Burned Alone and One Time He Didn't

by melo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six different scenes that take place at six different times in Dean's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Dean Winchester Burned Alone and One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> First five parts Gen, last part Dean/Castiel.
> 
> I don't actually know anything about social services or illnesses of any sort. This is fiction. Also, I'm sorry if the story seems a little choppy. Each part just insisted on growing legs so that they could stand alone or together...

i.

 

He’s standing in the doorway of his room.

It’s cold in just his thin pyjamas and he’s not supposed to still be up, but he can’t sleep because they’re going to the new park tomorrow and he’s too excited. He’s already tried running in circles and jumping up and down to make himself tired, but it’s not working and now he just feels even more excited.

He’s standing in the doorway of his room but the hallway is too long and too dark to be the same hallway his Daddy piggybacks him up and down sometimes. It’s stretching longer and longer and the hallway that his Mommy walks him through every morning doesn’t do that. So it’s not his hallway, but where else would his door go?

Dean’s wide awake, but now it’s not because he’s excited for tomorrow. It’s because he remembers this hallway and he remembers now that his door didn’t always lead to where he’d like it to.

He wishes he’d been able to sleep like a good kid so he wouldn’t be standing here in the doorway of his room again. And he wouldn’t be listening to his Mommy screaming again. And he wouldn’t be watching the bad man walk down the hallway towards him, yellow eyes smiling again like they do every night.

Dean just wants to wake up, but he never can and so he has to watch his Daddy run past him, calling for Mary again and again and again.

Then the air isn’t cold anymore and the hallway isn’t dark. Dean knows this part never happened but it feels real anyways. The fire looks like any other fire but it doesn’t feel the same. It’s wild and mean and it climbs all over the walls like his Daddy used to tell him not to do. But the fire is a bad fire and it doesn’t listen to Dean when he tells it to go away. The fire just keeps growing and growing and soon the hallway isn’t a hallway ( _not Dean’s hallway and not the other hallway_ ), but a tunnel of fire and Dean thinks this must be what the inside of a dragon’s throat looks like.

He can’t hear his Daddy anymore and Dean can’t even hear himself when he starts screaming and crying for his Mommy, his Daddy, anyone.

His Daddy always told Dean that if anything scary ever happens, he’ll be there to protect Dean. But Dean’s scared now and his Daddy is in the dragon’s tummy and the bad man did something to his Mommy.

Dean is watching the fire now but he knows he was watching _Pinocchio_ when he fell asleep. His Daddy’s tired all the time so he puts the old tape in the TV instead of reading Dean a story. It used to be Dean’s favourite movie, but he doesn’t tell his Daddy that he doesn’t like it anymore because Dean knows it would make him sadder.

And when his Daddy is sad he drifts somewhere far away without even leaving the motel.

Dean is standing in the doorway of his room again and he’s scared – so scared – and he wishes he was stronger so he could hold onto the things he loves. He needs to be stronger because his Daddy didn’t see the bad man. His Daddy didn’t see what the bad man is and Dean needs to tell him that it’s not his Daddy’s fault the fire took Mommy. His Daddy is floating away from Dean and he shouldn’t be because he saved Dean and he saved Sammy.

His Daddy needs to know these things so he steps into the dragon’s throat like he does every night. And like every night, he prays that this time the Blue Fairy will grant his wish even though there are no stars in Dean’s dreams.

 

 

ii.

 

Sammy’s favourite hat is on the little antenna thing at the top of the school. Dean’s pissed, but he’ll admit that the brat who put it up there’s a good shot and the little league probably loves him. It’s just too bad that Dean’s going to kick his butt later.

Secretly, of course. He can’t go attracting attention.

Dean checks that no one’s watching. He’s on the quiet side of the school near the shed that everyone thinks is haunted ( _pft, ‘haunted’_ ). He picked this side of the building since there’d be less chance of him being seen. It’ll be a little harder to climb with no trees nearby and only a few windows and ledges, but the brick wall has lots of grooves for Dean to grip and the training he does every morning helps, so Dean’s not worried.

Dean is freaking _Spiderman_ , and he’ll have Sammy’s hat back before lunch is over.

The little geek will probably whine about how Dean didn’t have to do anything, but after hearing the sniffling in the washroom last night, there’s no way Dean’s not going to climb the stupid building for his stupid brother.

Dean’s lowering himself to a second story window, Sammy’s hat tucked in his back pocket, feeling like he just earned the ‘Most Awesome Big Brother’ award, when he hears footsteps approaching. He scowls and speeds up, letting himself drop the rest of the way to the ground after he reaches the top of a first floor window.

He gets up from his crouch just as Mrs. Thompson rounds the corner and she must’ve been looking for him because she calls his name, “Dean, sweetie, I’d like to have a little talk with you.”

And that’s never a good thing. Dean’s not sure why Mrs. Thompson would want to talk to him though. She’s always liked him and she gave him a gold star just yesterday ( _even though he’s too old for that stuff_ ). But it’s not like Dean can pretend she’s calling for some other kid named Dean, so he just blanks his face and lets her take his hand and lead him back to her classroom.

When they get there, Dean sees that there’s another woman waiting for them and he starts to sweat. He’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.

“Dean, this is Ms. Fieldsman. She’s here to help,” Mrs. Thompson introduces as they all sit down around a table.

“Hello, Dean,” Ms. Fieldsman smiles kindly, and Dean can tell she’s probably a nice lady but he’s annoyed at her anyways.

“Hi,” he says, pulling out the innocent kid look, “I’m not in trouble am I?”

Ms. Fieldsman’s a counsellor or from Child Protective Services or something but Dean’s not going to give off any of the ‘abused kid’ vibes he knows she’s looking for. They obviously don’t have enough evidence or whatever to do what they want if they’re just going to have a talk, so as long as he stays cool, everything will be okay.

He doesn’t know what raised the alarm, though. Dean’s scrawny, yeah, but lots of kids are scrawny. He wears old, holey clothes that are too big for him, but it’s not a crime to be poor. He’s a bit of a loner, but there are kids way sadder looking than him. His grades are average and he hasn’t been caught fighting. The only thing that could set them off are the bruises and cuts Dean gets from training, but Dean always covers up and forges notes to sit out of gym if he’s hurt too bad.

“No, Dean,” Ms. Fieldsman tells him gently, “Mrs. Thompson’s worried about you, so we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Dean wrinkles his face with confusion.

“Dean,” Mrs. Thompson looks at him sadly, “I’ve noticed that you often don’t buy or bring a lunch.”

“Oh, that’s just ‘cause my twerpy little brother keeps forgetting his, so I had to give him mine,” he says with his best annoyed big brother voice.

The two women just exchange concerned looks before Mrs. Thompson continues, “Dean, could you tell me where you got that?” she points to the fading bruise near the edge of his jaw.

That was from sparing, but Dean’s not going to tell her that.

Instead, he looks down at his hands, twisting them and thinking of the most embarrassing thing he can so that he blushes, “I was running and there was this branch...”

But Mrs. Thompson’s face just falls a little more and Dean can’t help but feel guilty for lying to her. Teachers normally hate him, but she’s always been nice to him and he knows she’s just trying to be a good person.

“And this?” Mrs. Thompson reaches out to take Dean’s hands carefully into hers, pushing up his too-long sleeves as she does and revealing the bruises and scrapes that circle his wrists.

Dean has no idea how she noticed that and he’s suddenly hyper aware of how the bleeding fingertips he got from climbing the wall must be adding to the picture they’re building.

“You can tell me, Dean,” and Mrs. Thompson’s voice is all soft and encouraging, “You don’t have to hurt anymore. You just have to let us help you.”

And Dean can feel his face shutting down as he tries to keep his panic from slipping out because he doesn’t know how to explain this away. It’s from practicing how to escape being tied up and they’re obviously bruises from rope; not something any normal kid would have. He should’ve worn sweatbands or more layers of long sleeve shirts or heck, even a ton of bracelets could’ve helped.

Dean’s screwed up. Sammy really likes this school ( _and Dean does too_ ), and it’s because Dean’s stupid and sloppy that they’re going to move now. There’s nothing Dean can do to stop it, but he can buy them some time if he sticks with the innocent, not-an-abused-kid act ( _the stupidest part is he’s really not being abused_ ).

Dean’s sweating and he feels like the seat of his chair’s become a frying pan, but he thinks fast, says, “I was watching this movie with my brother where the hero got tied up. So we were pretending and then we accidentally tied the string too tight and I got stuck.”

He cringes a little because his words sound flat and practiced even though he just came up with them.

His Dad taught him all about lying; how a good lie is one that is close to the truth because it’s easier to remember and easier to believe since it’s _almost_ true. He also taught Dean that a lie can sound true and a truth can sound like a lie depending on how you say it. So Dean knows that even though what he said is a good story, both Mrs. Thompson and Ms. Fieldsman can tell it’s just that – a story.

Mrs. Thompson looks like she’s going to cry and somehow Dean feels even worse. Everyone’s counting on him to keep things normal but he blew it and it’s his fault that his Dad will have to leave his hunt early and Sammy will have to say goodbye to all his friends. And it’s his fault his teacher can’t go on teaching, happily oblivious and believing in the best of her kids. Everything he says is a lie and he’s not even a good liar.

He feels terrible. It’s like the feeling he gets when he has to write an answer on the board and he doesn’t know it or when he races to assemble a gun and drops it. It’s like that but a hundred times worse. He’s under a hot spotlight and he’s melting; all stupid and sweaty and small and his gut is twisting up so tight he might puke.

But normal kids don’t randomly puke so he can’t. He can’t make things worse than he already has so he asks, “Can I go now?” like he’s just some kid who wants his recess.

Ms. Fieldsman sighs and looks Dean wearily in the eye, nods, “I’ll see you again soon, Dean.”

Mrs. Thompson takes Dean back outside and bends down to his eye level, “Dean, sweetie, you know you can tell me if anything’s wrong, right? You’re a good kid and I just want you to be okay.”

And she looks so hopeful and warm and good and Dean’s so sorry that everything about him is one big lie. She’s Dean’s favourite teacher and he can see that she cares about him and all her students, but she’s a civilian. She wouldn’t understand and telling her would be letting down his family even more.

If only he were the good student that Mrs. Thompson thinks he is, or the good son his Dad should have.

He just nods his head and shrugs her hand off before making a break for the fence at the edge of the school yard.

There’s a paper on the fridge with a gold star back at the motel and he’s got Sammy’s hat in his pocket, but it doesn’t matter. He might’ve reached the top of the school, but he’ll never live up to what he needs to be.

 

 

iii.

 

It’s difficult to distract himself.

He tries to focus on how clear the night sky is or how quiet the city. On his way over, he’d noticed that you can actually see more than just the occasional airplane despite the street lights that try to taint the sky orange. He might even be able to see some constellations ( _he only knows the Big Dipper..._ ), but he can’t really stargaze at the moment and there’s nothing else he wants to look at. So instead, he closes his eyes and focuses on the pain in his knees.

They’ll be bruised to hell in the morning. They might even be a bit cut up to match the scratches on his palms. He hopes not. His pants are filthy enough without him adding blood stains, and he doesn’t want to spend even ten minutes scrubbing anything when his hands are scraped raw. He should cut his nails, but it’s not like he tore his palms open or anything and he’s had much worse. Still, Dean always feels annoyed when his hands are even a little injured.

Hands are important. He needs them for everything: shooting guns, wielding knives, cleaning weapons, laying salt lines – hell, even putting on socks or opening a bag of Twizzlers. The list could go on forever. He hadn’t realized how he’d taken his hands for granted until after that one hunt last summer when he’d had to fish a baggie of hair out of a pot of boiling water. He’d have used tongs or a fork, but the ghost had stuffed his Dad in the fridge and there’d been no time.

Then his hair is being pulled painfully from his scalp, “Look at me, ya little cunt!”

And Dean doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t want to, but his head is being yanked back again and he can’t stop his eyes from flying open.

The jackass is sneering down at him, one hand twisted in Dean’s hair and the other gripping the side of his jaw, probably leaving a mark where his thumb is digging into Dean’s cheek.

Dean chokes at the sudden change in angle, gagging pitifully on the hot flesh in his mouth and resisting the urge to bite down. And he wants to bite so badly, to punch the dirty leer off the guy’s unshaven face and kick him in his beer belly while he’s down.

Mostly, Dean wants to spit on him, ask him what the hell he’s doing ramming his cock into some kid’s mouth when he has his own to take care of. Dean knows the two-faced bastard’s got kids; saw him picking them up from the junior high Sammy goes to.

Dean wonders if he’s feeding the freak’s underage fantasies and it makes him sick.

But they only have one can of soup left, so he doesn’t say anything.

Dean does try shutting his eyes again, but every time he does the bastard jerks at Dean’s head until he can’t breathe, so he forces himself to peel his eyes open; something he always avoids like the plague.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it ya little slut. Just like that,” the fatass pants as he stares down into Dean’s eyes.

Sure, he bats his eyes at potential customers, flutters his lashes a little and tilts his head just right to catch the light – he knows what people see when they look at him, he’s not stupid – but when it gets down to business, the men never care what Dean does, so long as he sucks dick.

Having his eyes open makes everything so much more real ( _too real_ ).

Dean tries not to think about how sweaty the guy’s palms feel on his skin or how tired his jaw is from being stretched open like this. His lips are wet with saliva and other crap that dribbles down his chin, but they feel cracked dry all the same and he thinks his lower lip might be bleeding a little. Not to mention how his tongue feels like a dead fish being scaled with every thrust of the douchebag’s cock. And it’s hard to breathe with his nose bumping into the asshole’s hairy stomach, the musk of him thick and rank as his stained tee. He smells of cheap beer and cigarette smoke and sex, but it’s worse than all the graves Dean’s been in, including the ones where the bodies have only spent weeks in the ground and are still rotting. He doesn’t know how he’s not vomiting already.

“Fuck, so fuckin’ hot!” the guy’s jaw works up and down like a deranged cow.

His next thrust drives especially deep, hitting the back of Dean’s throat which relaxes automatically to accommodate the invasion. Dean’s rewarded with nails biting painfully into the soft underside of his jaw and a bellow, “ _Fuck!_ ”

Then the guy stops moving, cock still crammed into Dean’s mouth and searing his tongue with its revolting heat. He looks down at Dean and grins with twisted affection, his balding scalp shining like bloodied bone in the red light of a neon sign. He lays one meaty paw on Dean’s cheek and runs a sausage-like thumb under Dean’s eye; trails it down and forces it in past Dean’s lips and alongside his dick, “Such a pretty kid.”

And it’s so wrong; the words, the touch, the smile that’s not a smile. Dean’s stomach boils with hate and he wishes it would just be over already.

But suddenly the bastard’s throwing himself forward, knocking Dean back until he’s sprawled flat on the ground. Dean’s knees scream at the unnatural position and he kicks out until he manages to unfold them from under him, leaving his legs splayed awkwardly on the asphalt. He tries to push the freak away, but his hands have slipped from where they’d been keeping the man’s fat hips in place and the jackass is heavy ( _too many Twinkies_ ).

Still, the crushing girth straddling his chest is nothing compared to the hot panic that explodes through Dean.

He’s got a hunting knife tucked into his boot and a switchblade in his pocket, but before he can reach for either the guy’s claws are wrapped around his wrists and trapping them above his head.

Weaponless, Dean can’t help but try bucking the asshole off of him and is horrified to find that it’s only turning the creep on more. The fatass just rubs his cock all over Dean’s face, smearing precome across the bridge of his nose and tracing circles around his swollen lips.

He continues on like this and when Dean realizes that the jackass isn’t going to try for anything more, he feels thankful – and is ashamed that he feels anything positive about only having to suck cock – and he’s going to charge extra for this position.

So he just lays back and takes it, even participating a little more actively so that the bastard will finish faster and get the fuck off of him ( _anything to end it_ ). And thank god that the guy has next to no stamina because after only a couple more minutes of work, the douchebag’s panting like an ox on its last legs; great heaving gasps that whistle shrilly between the yellow squares that pass for teeth. Then he’s coming in scalding, messy spurts on Dean’s face ( _and Dean’s charging extra for that, too_ ).

When the prick finally leaves with a few parting swears about the price but no actual complaints, Dean picks himself up off the dirty ground and tucks the crumpled bills carefully into his jacket. He tries to ignore ( _bitter slime on his tongue_ ) the red marks circling his wrists, ( _ache in his throat_ ) the small bump on the back of his head from where it hit the pavement. He ( _barely_ ) resists the urge to follow the jackass to his car, to cut him again and again and again until he can use the asshole’s blood to wash the cum from his face; to rip the fucker’s dick off and set it on fire, rub the ashes into the prick’s eye socket and leave his still living body to the rats in the sewers.

He has to remind himself not to do anything. That the guy’s a father; that he has kids ( _and maybe that’s why he should_ ).

But it’s late and Dean doesn’t want to worry Sammy.

This isn’t Dean’s first trick, though it’s been a while since he’s had to keep his eyes open for one. And the ones he has to watch are always the worst, for one reason or another.

He makes his way down the alley and back to the shadow of the bar. He can see the stars again from here, but they don’t light up anything. They’re just tiny white specks that he can hardly see behind the smog of neon light.

His hands clench and unclench, nails tearing bloody furrows into his palms as he thinks about how many more tricks he’ll need to last the week. He wants to punch ( _stab, rip, tear_ ) something, to hurt ( _kill_ ) something ( _someone, anyone_ ) so that he won’t hurt ( _doesn’t hurt, not hurt, never hurt_ ).

Hate rolls through Dean like lava, hot and slow but inescapable; consuming everything it touches. And Dean’s not sure if it’s for himself for being weak and disgusting, or for the fatass for reminding him that a human ( _Dean_ ) can be a monster too.

 

 

iv.

 

The sun is his enemy, and the useless curtains are no friends of his either. Same goes for the bed sheets that are probably made of sandpaper of the roughest grade. And the bed itself, Dean is willing to bet it’s nothing good. He wouldn’t put it past the sleazy motel manager to cheap out and just stuff the mattresses with the chunks of asphalt that break off of the nearby highway. Maybe throw in some broken glass to soften the mix.

Dean sniffles, rolling over in bed, stubbled chin scratching on the equally scratchy pillowcase. He almost nuzzles his face in the thing, needing to hide from the goddamned sunlight, but it smells like eggs and Dean isn’t interested in finding out if there’s a whole breakfast in his pillow.

The thought of breakfast makes his stomach grump, complaining violently against the thought of eating anything right now, and Dean agrees wholeheartedly. Now is not the time for food, not when his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and he can feel a wet rattle building in his throat.

What he’d really like is some water, but Dean’s an idiot and he left the case of bottled water in the Impala. The next closest source would be the glass of water Dean left on the counter last night, and not on his bedside table. He could try walking to the bathroom, but he’s tired and sore and he can’t quite bring himself to make the effort.

Maybe he’ll get up when he starts hacking up blood or something. Later.

For now, Dean just rolls himself tighter in his blankets, probably looking like one of those mini sausages wrapped in pastry ( _pigs in a blanket? But Dean’s not a pig..._ ). Dean’s not sure why he keeps thinking about food when he’s not hungry, but Dean’s head hurts and the next best comparison he can think of is a corpse in a rug, and that’s just too morbid and not at all creative.

It doesn’t matter; the important thing is that Dean is rolled up in his blankets ( _corpse in a blanket?_ ) because he is sick.

He is sick, and he feels like crap, and he is not happy about it.

Dean’s not sure how he got sick because he felt fine just last night and he hardly ever falls ill. It’s not like he was running naked through icy rain or rolling around in the bed sheets of invalids. He was on a simple, salt’n’burn. It wasn’t even in a graveyard or at night. The body had been sealed in the dry wall of a house and the spirit had been terrorizing the family that had just moved in.

Whatever the reason, the motel air feels like winter came early and Dean’s left shivering despite being sweaty and hot under the blankets. Dean’s stuck in this room until he gets better, so he damn well get better soon. He’s supposed to meet up with his Dad in a few days, and he has to be there, because he knows his Dad will charge in on that coven of witches, with or without back up.

He coughs wetly into his pillow and appreciates that the one good thing about being alone is that he can be as disgusting as he wants and no one will complain or shove tissues in his face. Not that he needs tissues right now. The phlegm didn’t come out and it’s still stuck in his throat somewhere, stubborn little shit that it is.

He should probably take some medicine to speed the healing and all that, and lucky for him the medical kit is in the duffle under the bed. It shouldn’t be too hard to reach for the bag and drag it out a few inches to get the ibuprofen. Then he can pop a few pills; maybe watch some reruns on the tiny television at the foot of his bed while he waits for his body to shape up.

So with his plan of action laid out, Dean rolls slowly to the edge of the bed, probably stripping the mattress of its sheets as he goes, and sticks his head over the side to peer down at the floor.

He worms one arm out from the rough blankets and tugs on the straps of the duffle until it slides into view. He unzips the top and digs around searching for the kit, tossing random shit out of the way and onto the motel floor. When he finally has the kit open and the bottle of ibuprofen clutched in his clammy hands, Dean can’t help the delirious grin that spreads across his face. It’s like he’s already half way to kicking ass again.

He carefully shakes out a tablet and tosses it in his mouth, then almost immediately hacks it back up as his attempt at dry swallowing fails miserably. He tries a few more times but gives up when the next few tries yield the same results.

It really shouldn’t be a problem, except apparently it is; and Dean wants to scream and throw things but he doesn’t have the energy and the only thing that he could throw is the bottle of ibuprofen which he needs. So instead he just thumps his hand on the bed and moans feebly into the pillow.

So he’ll be making the trek for water sooner than he’d been planning. Okay.

Dean slowly peels himself from out of the blankets, mourning the warmth with each inch of skin he exposes. He manages to sit up and swing his legs onto the floor before he has to take a break and gather his strength.

Taking a few deep breaths, he hoists himself into a standing position ––

Dean is on the floor, face pressed into the gross motel carpet and nose inches away from a weird blue thing.

The light that streams in from between the mottled curtains is bright on the walls and Dean can guess it’s probably sometime in the afternoon.

It was morning just a few minutes ago.

Dean must have blacked out, and the crick in his neck and the burn in his limbs confirm that he has been lying sprawled in an awkward position for some time.

He tries to get up, but instantly regrets moving when his vision starts swimming and the blood starts pulsing madly in his ears. So he lowers himself carefully to the floor again and just stares at the weird blue thing he woke up to.

It’s the little bean bag thing that the little girl from yesterday’s hunt gave him. She’d made it herself and she’d wanted to give it to him as a gift for saving her family. It’s supposed to be a starfish, but it’s not like any starfish Dean’s ever seen. It’s blue and only has four legs and a face that’s probably supposed to be smiling but just looks vaguely disapproving to Dean. He would say it’s more of a ninja throwing star, but whatever.

He just lies there, not knowing what to do. He should try getting to the washroom or try climbing back into bed, but he’s too weak to do either as his body starts alternating between fits of bone shaking shivers and waves of blood boiling heat. He’s covered in sweat, his damp hair sticking to his forehead unpleasantly and his throat feels dry, even as a moist cough jostles his lungs.

He settles on pulling down a sheet from the bed and rolling himself in it until he faces the bathroom doorway, bottle of ibuprofen at his elbow and disapproving star-thing in the corner of his vision.

Maybe the floor isn’t such a bad place to be, it’s not like the bed’s any softer or the pillow any nicer smelling, and the blankets are actually the same colour as the carpet ( _corpse in a rug_ ).

Still, staring at the lone pair of boots by his head, Dean wishes that he’d never had the need to get water for himself in the first place.

 

 

v.

 

Hell is both everything he can imagine and everything he cannot.

There’s pain and suffering all around, of course, but the geography is surprisingly varied.

You can’t walk anywhere without getting blood all over your feet ( _if you still have feet_ ). And there are the classic rivers of blood, but sometimes you’ll see ones thick with half-melted bodies that are stuck together by congealing strings of red. These rivers ooze slowly through Hell, needing no channels to direct them since they’re powered by the souls inside clawing forward; each trying to get away from the other.

They might actually be Hell’s version of a train, he’s not sure. ( _He used to have a car––_ )

Some parts of Hell have what could be considered ‘flash floods,’ where one moment, everyone’s doing their thing – torturing, being tortured – then suddenly the dark abyss that serves as a sky opens up and blood comes down like a waterfall. There’s no escape, everything always gets washed away. It keeps the hierarchy interesting since the tortured can always be washed free or the torturer can get temporarily drowned.

He could go on and on forever ( _literally_ ) about all the different roles blood plays in the landscape of Hell, but there are other important features.

Like bones. Bones all over and they’re so handy.

Want a house? ( _He lived in a house once, it had white––_ )

Build it from bone.

Sturdy, affordable, versatile, and they’re compatible with flesh and blood, so you can fill in the gaps between with some fleshy insulation then cover it up with stretches of skin; paint some designs ( _like the trap on the ceiling at Bo––_ ) on the walls and make it homey.

He personally prefers the pure-bone structures. They have a little more class though he understands that some demons just want some damned privacy ( _haha_ ).

But no one really owns anything in Hell, not unless you’re strong enough to defend your turf, and not everyone bothers. Down here, no one cares if you’ve built a fucking fortress or if you’ve got a hundred acres of racks. It doesn’t mean anything; just that no one’s bothered to take it yet.

It all comes down to power.

He doesn’t have any right now, but they tell him that he could. That he could be a real big shot. All he needs is a little guidance, and they just want to give him a hand ( _but he grows those back all the time..._ ).

He doesn’t want to think about it right now. That’ll come later.

He’s always found the culture of Hell to be the most bizarre thing. No one ever expects it – because how can demons create when they’re things of destruction? – but it’s there.

Strangely enough, Hell is full of artists.

Not artists from the living world, just a lot of demons who like what they do and want to feel superior about it.

Screaming is the equivalent of elevator music, just because it’s everywhere. Sure, it’s a classic and most of the older demons love the raw sound like it’s a grand old symphony, but there are demons who organize their torturing so that the screams of their victims will ring out the notes of a song. Normally only the creative demons do this and they compose their own mixes, but some of the more determined ones will try to recreate music from their memories.

He thinks it’s a little sad.

He’d like to hear songs from his past too – but that’s not a safe topic at the moment.

Music is only the lesser half of Hell’s culture. Most of it is the art of torture ( _and yeah, the music comes from torture, but it’s really not the same_ ).

There are artists who sculpt and artists who paint. Some make carvings, etchings, woven things of red and white. There are so many different styles and every kind has a whole network of schools. He knows there are schools of art in the living world, though he doesn’t know any of their names. He used to know someone who could’ve told him... but he doesn’t remember that person’s name anymore ( _–and it’s important that he doesn’t think about him, not right now_ ). The point is that there are schools of art in Hell, and he’s been invited to join the most elite.

He could be the apprentice of the most infamous artist in Hell.

But he doesn’t want to think about it if he doesn’t have to.

He could think about Hell’s culinary arts, but that’s not a very nice topic either, even for Hell.

He misses Hell.

And there’s a thought he never thought he’d have. But it must be true because all he’s been able to think about is Hell: Hell’s rivers, Hell’s buildings, Hell’s art.

But most of all, Hell’s darkness.

Somehow Hell is always dark, even though there’s fire burning in every corner.

Not like this.

He cracks an eye open ( _he’s so glad he still has eyelids_ ) and has to slam it shut again right away. It’s too bright. Too fucking bright and really, his eyelids aren’t doing a fucking thing to help.

This is why Hell’s geography is so surprising. Who knew that they had a cave filled with pure light, like a little star that they can toss souls into and leave for hours and days and months and years and––

There’s white-blue all around him, infinite in its intensity. It burns and burns and burns, worse than hellfire ( _or maybe this is where they keep the good stuff_ ), and it feels like his very core is getting eaten up. It’s not even really burning. He’d never compare it to being touched by fire. Couldn’t even say it hurt ten thousand times worse than fire, because it isn’t fire and it isn’t pain. And it’s not light either, but fuck, he doesn’t know how to describe it. All he knows is that it’s the worst torture yet.

There are no knives spears swords sticks going into him and he’s not being torn ripped mangled crushed, but _what he wouldn’t give to be back on the rack_.

The light is like a living thing. Every time he thinks about anything that makes him him, it eats it. Burns it right up.

It took the names and sights of the places he’s been to.

It took the names and tastes of his favourite foods.

It took the names of people he knew; their faces.

It took his name.

He’s afraid that it might have taken more he just doesn’t know is missing.

He knows that Alastair’s giving him the special treatment for a reason, but he doesn’t dare think why. He might forget his purpose too. He just knows that he can’t break, mustn’t break ( _–but don’t think about it too much_ ).

He wonders if there comes a point where he’ll forget everything; light or no light.

 

 

vi.

 

Dean runs after the bastard, demon-killing knife in hand.

The demon’s meatsuit has the build of a sprinter and it covers ground insanely fast, leaping over rotted crates and making a beeline for the far side of the warehouse where the doors open onto the lake. Dean’s almost caught up, but just as he throws himself forward in a tackle the demon makes it outside and slams the heavy door in Dean’s face, giving him just enough time to curl his body and take most of the impact with his shoulder instead of flailing arms.

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean swears, scowling at the penis graffiti scrawled on the door in sharpie. Adrenaline keeps any pain at bay, but he can sure feel the blow to his pride. Taken down by a door, Dean’s just glad he didn’t fall on his knife too. The humiliation would have been unending.

Sweeping up the blade from the concrete floor, Dean spins around at the screech of rusty hinges behind him in time to see the only other exit slam shut on the other side of the warehouse. While being trapped by demons is never a good thing, Dean only realizes how far up shit creek he is when he sees what is half hidden under tarps in the center of the old building.

It’s a small pyramid of tangled wires and barrels of _something_ with an ominous digital clock counting down from 00:05:00.

Dean has never known demons to use explosives, but it figures that he’d be the one to attract the only demon that has a kink for mushroom clouds.

He tucks the knife away and immediately starts throwing himself against the door he’d bounced off of not even half a minute ago, cursing its exterior locks. He focuses on the hinged side, hoping that years of humidity and poor maintenance have worked their magic and will let him bust through, but after nearly two minutes of fruitless struggle, Dean gives up, pressing his back against the door, wide eyes flicking around the warehouse in search of another exit. The walls of the old building are a patch job of corrugated steel and warped wood, but Dean knows that even if the materials are shit and should by all rights be collapsing on themselves, the only way he could exit through the walls would be if he was accompanied by the very fireball he’s trying to avoid.

Just as he’s about to try putting his foot through the wall anyways, Dean notices a narrow strip of light shining between two boxes on the catwalk that circles the upper reaches of the warehouse. It’s not flickering enough to be cast by the few fluorescent bulbs dotting the ceiling and this encourages Dean as he clambers onto a stack of crates and reaches for the rusty ladder that leads up. It’s obvious that no one’s been upstairs in ages; the ladder is covered in grime, missing a few rungs and it looks like it might snap under his weight. It’s not enough to deter him, though he absently hopes that he’ll live long enough to worry about tetanus when he breaks a rung and opens a deep gash in his palm.

When he finally reaches the top, he sprints the short distance down the catwalk, whipping around a corner and towards the silvered light. He almost whoops with relief when he kicks aside the soggy looking boxes to reveal a small, dusty window.

He quickly strips off his leather jacket and wraps it around his arm, appreciating that the lake is close enough for him to jump into while smashing his elbow through the glass. Dean takes some time to clear jagged pieces from the opening; just enough so he doesn’t slit his throat on his way out, but it still feels like a waste of his precious seconds.

He’s crouched on the sill, calves tensed to jump, when the bomb goes off.

Everything is white. Blindingly white. Or maybe it’s black ( _really dark blue?_ ), Dean’s not sure. All he knows is the scalding heat at his back and the silent roar in his ears before he’s flying, weightless, floating in time.

Or maybe it’s water.

But time is fluid, so they must be one and the same.

It’s dark, murky, there’s silt or comet dust or both swirling around him, backlit by the undulating reds and golds of a blossoming nebula. It’s beautiful, seems to pulse outwards in sync with the beat of Dean’s heart, making him feel like he’s stumbled across something profound; a secret just for Dean. It occurs to him that he should exhale because that’s what they say you should do if you get sucked into the vacuum of space – exhale so your lungs don’t explode – but that would only buy him a few seconds. It doesn’t matter; he can’t escape explosive decompression without a space ship, anyways.

He’s wondering where the fuck he parked his space ship when the pain hits.

It’s like someone put his skull on a pike and his back couldn’t feel more raw if he took a cheese grater to it and he really, really needs to breathe. So he does – and shit, that’s not air he’s inhaling so he snaps his jaw shut but it’s too late and there’s nothing but time – no, water – in his mouth. He thrashes upwards but there’s something pinning his leg and _Jesus Christ_ , he sees penis graffiti and just knows that it’s that _motherfucking door_. The door is going to win after all and it’s going to stand over his corpse and laugh and when Sam finds out he’ll have to pretend that he has no brother because how is he supposed to tell people that the last thing Dean saw was a doodle of a giant dick?

Dean can’t breathe; needs to breathe –

Can’t –

He’s burning drowning dying but –

 _No._

No; because he’s Dean Winchester and some stupid door is not going to stop him. There are monsters that need killing, his baby needs new oil and he needs to call Bobby to tell him that he forgot to turn the stove off before he left. More than that, he has a little brother that needs someone to watch his back; who will do something moronic if he doesn’t come home. And he has people he wants to see, to talk to, to have awkward staring contests with. There are things he’s just starting to understand; he’s on the cusp of something new and he wants to see what happens, wants to see where this new road can take him and he has to be alive for any of it to be possible.

He doesn’t know what the last thing he’ll ever see is going to be, but it’s not going to be this.

Dean struggles with the door, tries pushing it, kicking at it, bucking up with all his strength and the breath he doesn’t have. It moves all of an inch, but his limbs feel like they’re being skewered by thousands of needles and he’s starting to lose control of his body; can’t stop his arms from shooting up, hands clawing for the surface. His body is a knot of mixed signals, skin screaming _cold!_ and blood crying _hot!_ He has all the water of the lake in his lungs but it doesn’t ease the burn in his chest and all he can see is the red-orange of firelight above, the silhouette of his hand _reaching reaching reaching_ through the darkness creeping into his vision.

Then everything is black ( _dark blue?_ ). Or maybe white.

 

* * *

 

Dean is coughing, spluttering and filling his lungs with oxygen and he wants to laugh ( _suck on that, fucking door_ ) but he’s too busy breathing.

As he catches his breath, Dean tries to take stock of his injuries. Besides a general full-body ache, his head throbs in the familiar way that indicates concussion; the skin of his back feels raw with what he hopes are only first degree burns; his throat might have been replaced with a crumpled pop can and he’s not sure if he’ll ever stop coughing as each breath he takes is followed by a round of wheezing that could put a chain smoker to shame. His eyes are stinging so he drags a greyish hand up to wipe at them, smearing wetness – tears from coughing so hard – across his lashes ( _and oh, there’s that cut on his palm – still bleeding_ ).

Satisfied that he’s not in danger of immediate death, Dean starts directing his focus outwards and notes that he’s curled on his side, cheek pressed into rough planks. Also, his clothes are dry.

That doesn’t make any sense because Dean is eighty percent sure that he was drowning in a lake just moments ago. He woke up spewing water, so that means he only recently started breathing again. He’s not sure how much time he spent underwater and how long he was unconscious for, but he knows that the brain can only go without oxygen for six minutes, at most, before dying. He’s not dead, so there definitely wasn’t enough time to dry anything.

Unless he _is_ dead.

Oh, god, he’s dead. Again.

At least he’s obviously not in Hell and he’s pretty sure that Heaven doesn’t smell like rotting wood. So he must be a ghost on Earth, which makes him wonder if he’s going to have to exist for the rest of eternity with his back stinging like a bitch, especially where a hand is gripping–

There’s a hand gripping his shoulder. In fact, there’s a second one resting on the crown of his skull.

Dean twists his head up and doesn’t know what he’s looking at. His vision is fuzzy with tears and whatever he’s seeing is too close to focus on. From the distant glow of fire he can make out what might be a shadowed cheek, the outline of a sharp nose, windblown black–

It’s Castiel; kneeling at Dean’s side.

 _“Dean.”_

And he must have been calling Dean’s name for some time now if the intensity of his voice is any indication.

“Cas?” he croaks, wincing at how ruined he sounds, “What... Am I – am I dead?” He asks because Castiel would be able to find him no matter where he went, on any side of the veil.

“No,” but the syllable is a little too forceful and Castiel holds Dean just a little bit tighter.

“Really?” tries to stifle a cough, twitches an eyebrow up.

“Yes, really.”

“But... I was – was drowning and then... then it w-was dark... or n-not dark and n-now my... “ Dean’s not even sure what he’s saying, so he finishes whatever it is with a smart, “I’m dry.”

Castiel’s words are clipped despite how the hand on Dean’s skull slides down to cup his cheek tenderly, “Dean, you’re shaking.”

And yes, his body’s probably experiencing some sort of shock, but Dean wants answers so he swats the angel’s hands away and fixes a bleary glare on where he thinks Castiel’s eyes are. It’s a little difficult because the flaming ruins of the warehouse lie behind Castiel and casts his face in shadow.

“C-Cas. J-just tell me –” breaks off so he can cough up his lungs, “Wh-what happened?”

Dean can sense Castiel caving, probably just so that Dean will shut up, but whatever. He smirks victoriously around another cough; patting Castiel’s arm to let him know he’s okay before the angel’s wandering hands can come back.

If Castiel were human, he might have sighed, “You called for me.”

“I didn’t call you,” Dean doesn’t know why he sounds so defensive.

“Maybe, not consciously, but Dean: your soul summoned me.”

And he is way too out of it to even try processing the emotion behind that so he just takes it as the truth Castiel presents it as. Dean motions for Castiel to continue explaining and is not prepared for the non sequitur, “I came directly from Heaven. That is why you are dry.”

“What?” because he wasn’t aware that Heaven’s soldiers were celestial dryers.

“At the speed I descended from Heaven, there was insufficient time to compress my grace properly. This left a small amount of energy outside my vessel which followed me into the physical plane and dissipated as light and heat.”

“Wait, so you were some kinda shooting star?” Dean tries very hard to banish the chorus of _When You Wish Upon a Star_ that starts up in his head.

“Yes,” he speaks like he’s reading from a telephone book, “Then, when I struck the lake, the water evaporated in my presence, including the damp in your clothing.”

That instantly clears the fog from his mind and he tries to push himself up in his surprise. It’s a little too much for his quivering arms and he’s embarrassed at how grateful he feels when Castiel pulls Dean into his chest to keep Dean from dropping back down like a sack of potatoes.

The embarrassment is short lived, though, because now that he’s sitting up, he can see exactly what happened. They’re on a blackened dock at the edge of a steaming crater and the light he’d assumed was from the burning warehouse ( _if there’s anything left of the warehouse_ ) is actually coming from the crescent of burning trees that ring the other half of what was once a lake.

His jaw drops open because, _Fuck_.

“Cas, wha – what?” _What?_

He can see Castiel’s brow furrow, concerned as Dean’s voice cracks and his stammering picks up, but Dean can’t even think about how his breathing is too fast or how his eyes are still watering from his latest coughing fit, because there’s soot floating on the wind and the sky is freaking red.

“Cas, _what did you do?_ ”

The angel tilts his head in confusion, “I just told–“

“No, Cas, I mean – You _vaporized a lake_ ,” Dean manages to keep his voice steady, even if his body remains crumpled and shaking against Castiel. “The trees are on _fire_. What if someone was camping in the area or something? They could be hurt,” and because Dean can’t get over what he’s seeing, “And you _vaporized a lake and the trees are on fire_.”

Somehow, Castiel manages to convey his exasperation without using his voice or his body, “Dean, I assure you, no living humans were hurt,” pauses, thinks for a moment, “And the lake was tainted; there have been no animals here in years.” He says it as if Dean’s some sort of bleeding heart that needs to be reassured that ants go to Heaven when you accidentally step on them. Also, something about the phrasing of the first half of Castiel’s statement bothers him. It takes him a few seconds but he realizes that Castiel must be aware of the demons he’d been after.

“So, demons...” Dean doesn’t quite know how to ask what happened to them.

Castiel goes very still at the mention of demons. The angel is turned towards him, features distorted in the play of light and shadow.

Dean can’t explain why he feels the need to hide his face even as Castiel lays a hand, ever so gently, to the back of Dean’s neck, “They will not trouble you again.”

And Dean gets the feeling that Castiel is talking about more than just the demons.

Neither of them speak for a few minutes, but the weight of Castiel’s words just keeps building until Dean can’t take it anymore, prompting a weak grin, “Hah, well, good thing I can take the heat, huh? Would be a shame if you came down to save my bacon only to boil my potatoes.”

Clearly, he’s not very funny because suddenly Castiel’s arms are snapping around Dean and dragging him violently closer until Dean’s sideways, bottom nestled in the vee of Castiel’s thighs. It’s like he’s getting ready to pick Dean up, bridal-style, but instead of looping an arm under Dean’s crooked knees, Castiel presses a hand to Dean’s back and wraps his other arm around Dean’s middle, locking him flush against Castiel’s chest. The angel is still kneeling and this can’t be comfortable for him, but when Dean tries to turn his face from where it’s buried in the collar of Castiel’s shirt, the iron bands of his arms tighten further.

Dean doesn’t want to suffocate after he just escaped drowning. This position is also aggravating his tender back and heaving lungs, so he whispers carefully into Castiel’s throat, eyes wide with alarm, “...Cas?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth is pressed to the side of Dean’s forehead, his lips just shy of kissing the soft fuzz at Dean’s hairline when he murmurs, “... I could _never_...”

Dean’s trembling has died down to occasional shivers, but he doesn’t feel cold at all. Rather, now that his world’s been narrowed to the space between Castiel’s arms, he can feel that every inch of his skin burns electric. Unwelcome sensation returning after his swan dive into cold water or something else entirely, Dean doesn’t know.

He wants to push away from Castiel, his flesh starting to feel like the angel’s branding him again. Not to mention that Castiel’s uncharacteristic clinginess is making him nervous and all too aware of the intimacy of their seating arrangement. But when he tilts his head to look up at his keeper, it’s the first time tonight that Castiel’s face has been washed in full light, and what Dean sees is too much, too much.

“ _I could never let you come to harm_ ,” and the angel’s voice crackles with the fire of Heaven. It is the voice of an immortal warrior, fearsome, great and terrible; ringing with divine power, but still – somehow – bleeding raw desperation; an unspoken command ( _plea_ ) that Dean must _hear him and understand_.

Dean, lying cradled in the arms of a being that destroyed a forest by accident – whose eyes tell Dean that he would do it a hundred times over, and worse – thinks that’s a ridiculous thing to say. Because how can he be safe when Castiel’s eyes are the blue of an all-consuming star and the dark that followed Dean into the lake; when Castiel’s hands are flames against his skin, licking at his very bones and charring black his marrow. The sight of him would burn out Dean’s eyes and the touch of him has branded his soul.

Castiel is deadly in every way that can and has hurt Dean. But Dean looks at him now and wonders if he might have also been everything good and kind that he never saw before. If maybe Castiel was what he wished upon without expecting an answer; was that little golden sticker that made him believe he could be something more. If Castiel was that far distant brightness that kept him company when he couldn’t even stand the sight of himself; if he was the comfort Dean took when he was alone and helpless.

Castiel is light and glory, power and grace, and he stretched down and pulled Dean from Hell.

But Castiel is looking at Dean now, and he is _reaching reaching reaching_ –

And he might just be dust, scorched clay reanimated, but Dean hears him and Dean understands.

So Dean lifts his hands towards Castiel, not caring that it burns, and lets his angel take his ashes.


End file.
